Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She liked the animated eagerness of his manner. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said. But Jack did not heed them. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to.
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