’ ‘Poor little devil,’ said Gerald, genuinely sorry for her. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. There was a dreadful stifled groan, and she fell heavily upon the landing. “We shall try again later. I got myself locked up to cool off. Run along while I rig up and get the part in my hair straight. “Some day,” she answered. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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