He’s out in Phoenix last I heard. Before that came your father didn’t even know you were gone. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance.
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