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His light brown hair was almost crew cut short. ‘But what is it that amuses you, Jacques?’ Kimble’s grin spread wider. “All the time he is shouting and muttering. At last, a little way to the northward of Euston Road, the moral cloud seemed to lift, the moral atmosphere to change; clean blinds appeared in the windows, clean doorsteps before the doors, a different appeal in the neatly placed cards bearing the word ————————————— | APARTMENTS ————————————— | in the clear bright windows. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes.
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