It isn’t the same thing. Once, both Ruth and Spurlock accompanied McClintock far south, to an island of blacks; and Spurlock had his first experience with the coconut dance and the booming of wooden tom-toms. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. "You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father, Aliva," he said. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast.
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