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He must think of what lay above. Therein was his hope. He clung to it, as he clung to the cliff-face, desperately. The sun blazed on his back. The sweat trickled down his face. He kept his mind to his work, and his nose to the cliff. A bee with an orange tail sucked at a purple thistle. Butterflies chased, loved, and sipped all round him. O for Gwen, and her killing-bottle!
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