“You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Wood, popping her head through the window. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner.
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