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 cabin of Thornton's yawl, where he very often looked at it.

"His eyes—her eyes—which are they?" he murmured, as he stood before it. "Hers are all joy, and tenderness, and sympathy, and dancing light; and his are wistful and eager, with pain stamped deep under their happiness and their bravery. She's caught that wonderfully, but she has painted herself into it, too."