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"
"
Where?"
A league from here."
The arched brow of Ursus knitted and took that pointed shape which
characterizes emotion on the brow of a philosopher.
"Dead! Lucky for her! We must leave her in the snow. She is well off
there. In which direction?"
"In the direction of the sea."
"Did you cross the bridge?"
"Yes."
Ursus opened the window at the back and examined the view.
The weather had not improved. The snow was falling thickly and
mournfully.
He shut the window.
He went to the broken glass; he filled the hole with a rag; he heaped
the stove with peat; he spread out as far as he could the bear-skin on
the chest; took a large book which he had in a corner, placed it under
the skin for a pillow, and laid the head of the sleeping infant on it.
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