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How would it be if you gave my child your name Rackby? Don't say no to me. Say you will. Just the scratching of a pen, and what a deal of hardship she'll be saved not to be known as Cad Sills over again." Her hand tightened on his wrist.
"She will turn out to be a chip of the old block," said Zinie Shadd's wife, "or I shall never live to see the back of my neck." Jethro Rackby heard nothing of such prophecy. He lived at home. Here in his estimation was a being without guile, in whose innocence he might rejoice. His forethought was great and pathetic. He took care that she should learn to caress him with her finger tips alone.
But maybe you would feel none the worse for doing me a favor, feeling as you do." "Yes, yes." Her hand sought his. "You see me how I am. I shall not survive my child, for my mother did not before me. Listen. You are town clerk. You write the names of the new born on a sheet of ruled paper and that is their name?" Rackby nodded. "So much I knew Come.
Even Rackby had taken note of her once, deep as his head was in the clouds by preference and custom. It was a day in late November. No snow had fallen, and she floated past him like a cloud shadow as he plodded in the yellow road which turned east at the Preaching Tree.
Women whom the sea had widowed shivered and rattled irons when the Old Roke came close to their windows; but the men listened, as if they had been called each by his own name. "What's the ringle jingle of feet by the side of that?" Rackby said, his mystified face turned toward the water. "I'm a man for slow tunes, Peter. No, no, no; put your paper up again." "No?
You're a denying sort of a crab, and no mistake. Always seeing how fast you can crawl backward out of pleasure." "I mistrust women." "You cleave to the spirit and turn from the flesh, that I know. But here's a woman with a voice to waken the dead." "That's the voice on the seaward side of Meteor," answered Rackby. "Cad Sills is flesh and blood of the Old Roke, I'm agreed," said Deep-water Peter.
Rackby followed her in terror, not knowing which way to go in the lonely darkness to come up with her. In his turn he remembered the man who had tried to keep wild foxes on Meteor. The harbor was calm, wondrous calm, with that blackness in the water which always precedes the rigor mortis of winter itself.
Rackby, returning to the gray house with his purchase, peered past its stone rampart before going in. His eye softened in anticipation of welcome. Surely no angel half so lovely was ever hidden at the heart of night. The kitchen was empty. So were all the rooms of the house, he soon enough found out.
Here I hold the little man blindfolded by my wiles and this is my thanks!" The voice was tearful with self-pity. "Is that so, my puss?" roared the seaman, melted in a flash. He swung the girl by the waist with his free arm. "You have got just enough natural impudence for the tall water and no mistake. Come along." "Wait!" cried Jethro Rackby. He stepped forward.
A cool wind surged through the sparkling brown oak leaves of the oaks at Hannan's Landing. "They die as the old die," reflected Jethro Rackby, "gnarled, withered, still hanging on when they are all but sapless." Despite the melancholy thought, his vision was gladdened by a magic clarity extending over all the heavens, and even to the source of the reviving winds. The sea was blown clear of ships.
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