There was a long silence, broken
only by the distant purring of engines. At about twelve-thirty a voice
came from the lower berth.
"Sam!"
"What is it now?"
"There is a sweet womanly strength about her, Sam. She was telling me
she once killed a panther with a hat-pin."
Sam groaned and tossed on his mattress.
Silence fell again.
"At least I think it was a panther," said Eustace Hignett, at a quarter
past one. "Either a panther or a puma."
CHAPTER EIGHT
A week after the liner Atlantic had docked at Southampton, Sam Marlowe
might have been observed--and was observed by various of the
residents--sitting on a bench on the esplanade of that repellent
watering-place, Bingley-on-the-Sea, in Sussex. All watering-places on
the South Coast of England are blots on the landscape, but, though I am
aware that by saying it I shall offend the civic pride of some of the
others, none are so peculiarly foul as Bingley-on-the-Sea. The asphalt
on the Bingley esplanade is several degrees more depressing than the
asphalt on other esplanades.
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