I wouldn't keep an apprentice to set my authority at defiance. 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 don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length. But pathologically, he is still on the edge. The perception of him flooded her being. All this muddle to placate his conscience! "Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand.
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