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He was clear of the wharves now, and the wind had him sailing China way so peaceful, so dreamless, surrounded by his tell-tale cargo of Urkey's unwashed collars. I don't know how long it was I crouched there on the timbers, staring out into the havoc of that black night, and listening to the hungry clamor of the Bight.
"Dear me, I'm late for prayer-meeting again. Snow will be looking for me." I slipped out behind him, glad enough of Urkey's raw air after that close chamber of mysteries.
She meant to run when he let her go, but when she saw him striding off toward Mary Matheson's her better wisdom prevailed; following along the lane and taking shelter behind Gramma Pilot's fence, she waited, watched, and listened, to the enduring gain of Urkey's sisterhood. She used to tell it well, Mother Poll.
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