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The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. ’ ‘Pottiswick, you mean, miss?’ ‘Yes, yes. Oh, I grew fond of you as the years went by. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away.
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