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And so down the path ridged with the bronze bars of late afternoon sunlight, they passed, Harry strutting in the lead, wrinkled face lifted, scanty white locks streaming in the breeze as he drew from his whistle a wild sweet melody. "The Phœbe is bound to that port," again interrupted Mr Fellowes. Billy tried to say something. His lips moved dumbly. Moisture gathered between his shoulder blades, condensed as it met cold fear, and trickled in tiny rivulets down his shivering spine. "'No ghost kin harm where lies this charm,'" chuckled Maurice..