Sheppard uttered a piercing scream. " "The boy's not at my house," replied Wild. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. I want to do something.
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