He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. Anna sat quite still for a moment, and then the colour suddenly returned to her cheeks.
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