He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. You’ll never see the light of day as long as you live. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap.
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