His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. “Homely?” “Well, yeah, that’s what he said. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. ‘It is in truth you?’ ‘Of course it is I. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon.
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