” “Go ahead. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. My only love is for my poor lost son. ” “Yes, shit. " He departed, musing. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. Observing Spurlock's spellbound attitude, he clapped the boy on the shoulder.
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