“Yes. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. ” He adjusted his glasses on his nose. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach.
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