Mike chortled. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. " "Iss, Massa Austin," replied the black. “I shall never be able to thank you. " "Then, I'm quite easy," cried Winifred, joyfully. She drove me. .
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