Excerpt from White Wings, Vol. 2 of 3: A Yachting Romance
It is near mid-day; two late people are sitting at breakfast; the skylight overhead has been lifted, and the cool sea-air fills the saloon.
"Dead calm again," says Angus Sutherland, for he can see the rose-red ensign hanging limp from the mizen-mast, a blaze of colour against the still blue.
There is no doubt that the White Dove is quite motionless; and that a perfect silence reigns around her.
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