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No longer need anyone torture his brain to remember whether the tallest maple-trees stood beyond the river's second bend to the left or its fourth to the right, or between the third turning to the right and the fifth to the left. The little fox-hair brush sprang upon the fact and pinioned it, a prisoner for the remainder of time. The chief's pleasure was almost too great to be controlled.
Still humming, and with the leisurely air of one who works to please himself alone, the Norman completed his task and held the result up critically to the light. It was nothing more nor less than a clumsy little fox-hair brush. Leaning back on the bear skin the chief continued to gaze at it curiously. But the pair across the fire suddenly turned to each other with a gasp of comprehension.
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