He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “He fell over at my feet,” she continued. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination. Then the storm broke. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown.
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