’ ‘Aye, more’s the pity. ’ Gerald could not resist. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "She has," rejoined Sheppard. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever.
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