She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. ‘Come, cry a truce. It was bleeding again. 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 got up and unlocked the door. Larry would be up soon. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it.
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