’ ‘He let them go?’ asked Miss Froxfield incredulously. She recalled him. He was snoring stupidly. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. I have but to give a hint of that boy's existence in the proper quarter, and his life will not be worth a day's purchase. Never in this world! Let the hotel people take care of him; it's their affair. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance.
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