This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. They weren’t very chummy with one another but Sheila 113 didn’t expect much from a foster daughter as long as she worked hard, very hard, to earn her keep. Wood the carpenter.
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