There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. But two weeks later he returned. " "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. The image did not move. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice. From thoughts of fame to thoughts of mere bread and butter! It seemed to Spurlock that he had tumbled off the edge of Somewhere into the abyss of Nowhere.
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