The girl may have stood on some promontory watching the gray ironclads dissolve one by one in the South Atlantic mist, but even if you’d like a few bars of Madame Butterfly about here, she was more probably out hustling, or asleep. She was not going to have an easy time. Tchitcherine had left her with a child, born a few months after the gunner went down in sight of the steep cliffs and green forests of Tsushima, early in the evening of 27 May.
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