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As sure as loot is loot, old Johannes Maartens would have got away and across the Yellow Sea with his booty had it not been for the fog next day that lost him. That cursed fog! A song was made of it, that I heard and hated through all Cho-Sen to my dying day. Here run two lines of it: "Yanggukeni chajin anga Wheanpong tora deunda, The thick fog of the Westerners Broods over Whean peak."
"Is she neaw comely? ay, comelier far than fat, fubsy Sukey here or than Nancy Holt, wi' her yallo hure an frecklet feace an yet ye ca' her a witch." "Ey ca' thee one, theaw feaw little whean an the dowter an grandowter o' one an that's more," cried Nancy. "Freckles i' your own feace, ye mismannert minx."
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