But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. ‘Speak, then. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. ” He shook his head. “Dear me!” he said.
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