” “Excuse me,” Mr. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. I shall find him yet.
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