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Updated: May 24, 2025
As Yellen spoke in a hushed sad voice, suddenly, though no breath of wind was stirring, sprang up on the edge of the camp a boolee, rearing its head as if it were a living thing. Round it whirled, snatching the dead leaves of the Coolabahs, swirling them with the dust it gathered into a spiral column, which sped, as if indeed a spirit animated it, straight to the camp of the dying woman.
Finding the deathbed guarded, the boolee turned sharply from the camp and sped away down the road, dissolving on the poligonum flat in the distance. Yellen gave a sigh of relief. But now her fears were verified; Beemunny was dead. Poor old Beemunny! How the vanities of youth cling to one; how we are 'all sisters under the skin.
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