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‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. She tucked the mission Bible under her arm, and crooking a finger at Rollo, went forth to the west beach where the sou'-west surge piled up muddily, burdened with broken spars, crates, boxes, and weeds.
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