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a-quiver, for he smelt blood. There was a little splash of it on the leaves of a young moose-wood. Sunrise considered the blood to mean this:
"Dawn," he said, "does not go willingly, the man is forcing her to run ahead of him, and here he found it necessary to prick her with his spear. She is still fighting against him," he said, and that surmise shot a pitiful little spasm of joy into his sick heart. He ran on.
"After a time," he reflected, "the man will be
