"Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and fly. “I see the pointer,” she said. I took the usual way home. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance.
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