He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. ‘No one would credit that you are three years older than I. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. My name is Annabel, not Anna. ‘I know just what he was doing.
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