McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn.
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