Her father was holding her waist, smiling. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. But, urged by his wife's cries, who was more anxious for the preservation of her child's life than her own, he snatched up the infant, and made his escape from the back of the premises. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. Get me an interview with her. I deal with the Malay mostly; but twice a year I visit islands occupied by the true blacks, recently cured of their ancient taste for long-pig. "Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned.
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