“There’s endless reasons, no doubt, why we shouldn’t,” he said. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum.
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