I too can see it. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. “It’s precious unromantic. Shalford says—the accidental conquering the essential. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. I am a single man, and——” “Thank you,” she interrupted. She felt sickeningly empty. Her heart thudded. "I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked.
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