He seemed to be thinking hard. Every one of those four stories would be accepted. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. Spurling. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. After all, life had still its pulsations. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. A sacrifice. "I understand," she said. “I am frightened now. You could return to civilization and have a good time all the rest of your days.
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