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Updated: May 26, 2025
Thus far he got, and thus far we understood. But when he tried to express the cooperative impulse that stirred within him, his noises became gibberish. Then Big-Face, with brow-bristling and chest-pounding, began to chatter. One after another of us joined in the orgy of rage, until even old Marrow-Bone was mumbling and spluttering with his cracked voice and withered lips.
There were no heroics, no chest-pounding, no suggestion of romantically blighted lives and broken hearts. "That means, of course, that I'll have to climb out," Peter finally and very prosaically remarked. "Why?" I asked. "Because it's so apt to leave one of us sailing under false colors," was his somewhat oblique way of explaining the situation.
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