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Page 197

| began bearing down upon the sheep station in a swirl of dust and noise. |

| From this distance, Sasha could see that the wagon was being pulled by two snorting, sweating horses whipped on by the driver. She could hear the slap of the leather and the creaking of the timber and bolts that held the whole thing together. |

| "Why, it's Jacob, the Syrian hawker," Sasha gasped, lowering her rifle to her side. Her eyes danced as the wagon continued on its way toward her. |

| Sasha had seen the peddlar often on the streets of Melbourne and knew that he was liked by everyone, especially those in the outback who could not get into town often enough to shop for their needs. In his wagon he carried the usual stock of clothing, scents, soaps, red flannelette to ward off pneumonia, and much, much more! |

| The hawker drew rein next to Sasha. "Good-day, miss," he said, tipping his sweat-stained hat to her. "Can I interest you in something fine today for yourself, or your husband?" |

| "Good morning, sir," Sasha said, her heart pounding. The day which only moments ago had been flat as a pastry board was now exciting. "I would love to see your wares. But I am not sure I can afford anything that you show me." |

| The hawker was dark, with blue tattoo marks on his hands; his eyes were deep and dark in the bones of his face. He climbed down from his seat and ambled, stiff-legged, to the back of his wagon. "Most say they can't afford much, yet they end up buyin' one or two of my items," he said, uncovering his shiny white teeth in a smile. |

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