The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. " "Are they good?" "He can write; but he hasn't found anything real to write about. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. ” “Again,” he said, “I am going to be impertinent. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around.
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