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Michael Molloy
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His long narrow face was as dark and seamed as an old oak plank, so that his teeth looked very white when he smiled at Abby. Black bushy eyebrows jutted above his big hooked nose and a thin white scar curved down from his left cheek to end under his jaw.
Spike followed the stranger as he carried Abby through the pouring rain to the entrance of the lighthouse. 'Step lively boy and open the door for me,' the man said in a gruff voice.
Spike looked uncertain and the man spoke again — this time in the strange language of clicks and whistles that Spike had once used. Spike smiled and immediately did what he was asked.
They entered the lighthouse and Abby remembered the great iron spiral staircase that led upwards to where the light had once been. The tall man carried her effortlessly to the top of the stairs and they entered a wide circular room that was now furnished like a ship's cabin.
There was a hammock, several great sea chests bound with brass, old sailing instruments, harpoons, a collection of ships in bottles and one mighty chair made from gnarled driftwood that had been smoothed by the sea. Ancient charts of the oceans of the world covered the stone walls. The man sat Abby on one of the chests and asked, 'Which ankle did you hurt, girl?'
Abby extended her left foot and the man held the swollen ankle in both of his hands. They were hard and rough but surprisingly warm. After a moment she felt the pain recede.
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