His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. “Why didn’t you come back? Lucy, I needed you to come back, just once. The barometer says nothing, neither the sky nor the water; the skipper has the "feel" that out yonder there's a big blow moving. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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