Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. But it seemed that their presence was not even suspected. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. He told her something about music, the great world outside. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance.
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