” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. “No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly.
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