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. ’ The sharp eyes twinkled. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. "Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other.
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