They then took off their boots, and crept stealthily up stairs, treading upon the point of their toes so cautiously, that not a board creaked beneath their weight. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. He told some of the particulars. Nasty, damp passages. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. He looked at her, his eyes filled with excited terror and astonishment at her move. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love.
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