He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. But here the resemblance stopped. “My child, I do not wish.
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