"It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. A neat tale, giving little away. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman.
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