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McClintock was amused. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. He had the air of a man who has said too much. He held in his hands many threads. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very different air. The next moment, however, he was picked up, and set upon his feet by a person who, having witnessed the accident, flew across the road to his assistance. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more.
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