He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "And yet, he has been spared thus long; perhaps with a wise purpose," rejoined Thames. She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life and the changing mysteries of the sea.
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