All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. It shall be your wedding ring. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go.
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