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He pushed forward a chair, found a blanket for her feet, lighted the "Quick-heater" oil-stove on which he did his cooking. She followed him with her eyes, deeply glowing but vague and troubled. "This is not a station," she said. "No. It's my shack. Are you cold?" "Not very." She shivered a little. "You say that some one hurt you?" "Yes. They struck me. It made my head feel queer."
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