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hollered up a gale
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that blew us from Laconic Melea to Egypt.
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My crew grew restive; when the storm was spent and I had
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done flogging me with halyard, I chose a moment somewhere off
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snaked Libya, slipped my cloak,
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rapped at Helen's cabin, and in measured tones declared:
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"Forgive me."
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Adding firmly: "Are you there?"
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He's pathetic!
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He runs through all these stories about himself,
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and as each one fails to win him back into Helen's cabin,
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he comes up with another one.