A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. She gently placed the car back upon the ground. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. I could not hear his heart beat. She stood up before him, smiling faintly.
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