“I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Close upon this came another thought. You refuse me your confidence. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. He came to her at once, and turning, walked by her side. " "That child may be the means of saving me," muttered the stranger, as if struck by a new idea: "I shall gain time by the expedient. .
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