At Thorn Ridge the way was choked with brambles, li upon li of them, and , of all the company, proved unexpectedly useful — he grew himself huge and rooted a path through the thorns with his rake and his bulk, plowing a road for the others, one of the pig's rare afternoons of being exactly the right tool. And in the middle of the cleared brambles they found a quiet hermitage, and its residents took in the night.
But these were the gentlest abductors in the whole book, and the chapter is a small strange jewel because of it.
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