"No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She seemed honestly glad to see him. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. I will not be persecuted in this way by you.
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