It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. But here I am to draw upon. My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. I guess. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door.
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