The next morning came a compact letter from her father. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. I’ll be waiting for you outside. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you.
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