Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. Part I.
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Is This Here Table for My Mate, Bill?
The captain had risen earlier than usual, and sat out down the beach. He was a pale, tallowy creature, wanting two fingers of the left hand. Though he wore a cutlass, he did not look much like a fighter. I remember his breath hanging like smoke in his wake as he strode off. The last sound I heard of him, as he turned the big rock, was a loud snort of indignation. His mind was still running upon Dr Loosey.
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