A dozen meters below them, a young man lay on a railing, sketching a propeller.  He moved his pencil lightly but with precision, absorbed in his work.
“Aren’t you cold?”  A voice asked. making him jump and drop his tools.  He managed to grab the notebook, but the pencil slipped over the side and tumbled end over end to the ground far below.  He rose and turned to see a beautiful girl of his own age wrapped in  a shawl.  “Oh, dear.  I apologize,” she said.  He smiled.
“I have others.  I’m Nelson Pembrooke.”
“Penelope Hamilton.”  She smiled dazzlingly back.

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