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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"


"That, I guess, is all," he concluded slowly. "Only I wish"--he caught
her by the shoulders and shook her gently--"I sure do wish it could
have been different, little person. Maybe you'll have a kindlier
feeling for this big old North when you get back into your cities and
towns, with their smoke and smells and business sharks, where it's
everybody for himself and the devil take the hindmost. Maybe some time
when I get restless for human companionship and come out to cavort in
the bright lights for a while, I may pass you on a street somewhere.
This world is very small. Oh, yes--when you get to Vancouver go to the
Ladysmith. It's a nice, quiet hotel in the West End. Any hack driver
knows the place."
He dropped his hands, and looked steadily at her for a few seconds,
steadily and longingly.
"Good-by!" he said abruptly--and walked out, and down the gangplank
that was already being cast loose, and away up the wharf without a
backward glance.
The _Stanley D.'s_ siren woke the echoes along the wooded shore. A
throbbing that shook her from stem to stern betokened the first
turnings of the screw. And slowly she backed into deep water and swung
wide for the outer passage.


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