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” His rhythm slowed to a grind. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.
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