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She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. There was a very substantial profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives in commodities—coloured cotton cloths, pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. She crept out of the shadows.

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