"Stop a minute," cried Jack, detaining his mistresses. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. From the unlovely hillside his glance strayed to the several five-story towers of the pawnshops. “I was hoping to be able to secure a few minutes’ conversation with you, Miss Pellissier.
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