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Wearing all the clothing he carried with him, wrapped in his blanket, Pippin huddled over the meagre fire. With no awake companions other than the man who stared silently out into the wilderness, he felt lonelier than ever. His stomach rumbled. Boromir turned. “Still enjoying your adventure?” Tired, Pippin blurted out, “I’m always cold, always hungry, and wishing my father had put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Stay. You’re needed.’ when I went off.” A look that might have been pain, or regret, or just a trick of the unsteady fire-light passed over Boromir’s face. “I as well.”
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