"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. “I feared we might have a fog. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father.
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