“You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. If only we work together. CHAPTER XXVIII.
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