The man himself was not a pleasant object. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up. He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. I will give you all some tea, and then I must leave you for a few minutes. "She has, she has," said Jack, in a broken voice.
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