There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Leave the means to me. His shadowy eyes revealed two things: that he was oversensitive in his extreme intelligence and that he suffered an acute insomnia. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. Mistresses neither deserve consideration nor commiseration.
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