He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Monsieur Charvill, he is also my cousin. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. ‘She’s perfectly right. He turned his back on that temptation. Ireton, you are in league with him.
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