He patted the hand on his sleeve. . ’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. ” “How?” “Well—a little clumsily. He's here," returned the skipper, pointing significantly downwards. Everybody who’s going to develop into a woman.
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