And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. Not enough of them to make a difference. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood.
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