"What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. 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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