"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. "And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence.
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