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Updated: June 22, 2025
From where he and Piney were they could hear the sound of a steam-drill, thud-thud-thudding into the heart of a distant knob of the Canaan Tigmores. That notion of Carington's and his about getting into the hills had undeniably balled up into the veriest nonsense under the pressure of Crittenton Madeira's control of the Tigmores.
After a while they sat down and talked it over at length from beginning to end, and then back again, from end to beginning. Up in the Tigmores Crit Madeira's drills beat and bore at the heart of the earth, deeper, deeper; by the Redbud shack, the two men, on the ground, bore into Madeira's trickery, deeper, deeper.
That bisque-warm skin of hers flushed wondrously and she seemed to talk out of a little confused audacity of her own. Madeira's voice rang down the walk again. "Yes, Father! and down here with my own people, too. Yes, Father!" "Company's here, Sally." "All right, Father, coming." "And I have to go?" asked Steering piteously.
And by and by, following it, soaring up with it, the glorious fulness of Salome Madeira's velvety soprano. Bruce, far down the river road, heard, too.
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