His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. I pray you, Gérard, do not fail me. The money will last longer, and—it won’t bother you. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign.
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