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But the dream-face did not fade, the dream-eyes gazed softly into his, the dream-lips moved, and the low sound of the dream-voice was music to his ears. "You are sick," the voice said; "you are in pain." Bill's throat was dry with a burning thirst. "Water!" he gasped, and the word rasped harsh. The girl reached into the shadows and a tiny white-brown hand appeared holding a dripping tin cup.
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