"What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Brendon. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. Lucy's ears were singing.
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