“I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one. Ramage!” she began, and his mouth sealed hers and his breath was mixed with her breath. “I really owe him something of an apology. "The Dawn Pearl!" he said, making to recline again. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. But she did not speak.
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