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There were now fourteen notches on the loom of the Skyeman's oar:-So many days since we had pushed from the fore-chains of the Arcturion. But as yet, no floating bough, no tern, noddy, nor reef-bird, to denote our proximity to land. In that long calm, whither might not the currents have swept us?
Where we were precisely, we knew not; but accordi
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