It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. 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’re so cute. " "Six weeks have elapsed since that fatal night," replied Jack. She lied. Mr. Her eyes were wide and bright. So, while she watched, distressed and bewildered by her tumbling thoughts, the packet, Canton bound, ruffled the placid waters of the Pearl River.
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