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Sheppard, with an agonized look at Wood. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. It did not seem quite fair. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. “My hand! This isn’t the place. ‘I never met a rat what wandered about the place with a lantern, I didn’t,’ grumbled the old lodgekeeper aggrievedly. Your glove will suffice. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand.
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