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. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. On the right were several mounted grenadiers: on the left, some half dozen javelin-men. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived.
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