So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. 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. ‘Come, cry a truce.
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