"To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. I got myself locked up to cool off.
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