"Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. Come back—you must come back. Father— dead. McClintock's was a plantation of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about half a million nuts. The momentary alarm over, he threw a piece of-wash leather over a bureau, so as to deaden the sound, and instantly broke it open with a small crowbar.
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