She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. This extraordinary child had opened up an old channel through which it was no longer safe to cruise. And in its way it was very well. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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