Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. You know my fixed determination. It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall.
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