Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. “My Mom makes more money than my Dad, a lot more. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends. Come and see him, Lucia. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. And always they were well satisfied.
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