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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"


"I wonder if I've got to the point of seeing things," he said slowly.
"Say, little person, is it your astral body, or is it really you?"
"Of course it's me," she cried tremulously, and with fine disregard for
her habitual preciseness of speech.
He came up close to her and pinched her arm with a gentle pressure, as
if he had to feel the material substance of her before he could
believe. And then he put his hands on her shoulders, as he had done on
the steamer that day at Bella Coola, and looked long and earnestly at
her--looked till a crimson wave rose from her neck to the roots of her
dark, glossy hair. And with that Roaring Bill took her in his arms,
cuddled her up close to him, and kissed her, not once but many times.
"You really and truly came back, little person," he murmured. "Lord,
Lord--and yet they say the day of miracles is past."
"You didn't think I would, did you?" she asked, with her blushing face
snuggled against his sturdy breast. "Still, you gave me a map so that
I could find the place?"
"That was just taking a desperate chance. No, I never expected to see
you again, unless by accident," he said honestly. "And I've been
crying the hurt of it to the stars all the way back from the coast.


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