But I liked to say it. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. Jack instandly extinguished the light, and called to his comrade to come after him. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. But men of the Spurlock type, who walk straight, who are unobtrusive and intensely pale, they break swiftly and inexplicably.
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