“It is a hateful story. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. ‘I only wish I might have won her confidence. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion.
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