” “It is hard to be distant from your own mother. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “I want to ask you a question,” he said. I felt his heart. I knew where I would go next: Florence.
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