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Spell Of The BeastChapter 8
The sun stood an hour above the ridge before any of the plane-wreck castaways were awake. Joan stirred in Jim's arms, sleepily; she stretched and opened her eyes to the sunbeams filtering through the branches overhead. She winced. Her head ached, slightly, from the effects of the whiskey she had consumed. Ruefully, she told herself that, in the future, she would have to ration consumption of alcohol. Last night had been a little too much for her. She arose, stirred up the fire and put the...