” He said. “He dissembles,” he said. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back.
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