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to sail for Russia. There they installed the left-handed man in the very best manner, like a real gentleman; but he did not like it, and was ashamed to sit shut up with the other gentle-folk; so he went off to the deck, sat down under the tarpaulin, and asked: "Where is our Russia?"

The Englishman whom he asked pointed or nodded his head in the right direction, and he turned his face thither and gazed impatiently towards his native land.

When they emerged from the harbor into the Dryland Sea, his longing for Russia became so great that it was impossible to soothe him in any way whatever. The dash of the waves became terrible, but still the left-handed man would not go below to the cabin—he sat there under the tarpaulin, pulled up his hood, and gazed towards his Fatherland. Many times did the

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