The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. "First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying effort. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. "What is your name?" "Ruth. Let me take the satchel, sir. The man lingered.
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