And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. “Yes. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms.
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