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nge coasts under the stars, faces grown dim. . . . Perhap97ca1.tks, perhaps, men’s passions in the dusk, shadows of hills 97ca1.tkin the sunshine, there still was in the world something to write about. Yet I97ca1.tk did not see anything at first in the mere story. A rascal steals a large parcel of a valuable commodity — so people say. It’s either true or untrue; and in any case it has no value in itself. To invent a circumstantial account of the robbe, gossip half-forgotten,