“I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand.
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