The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. But here the resemblance stopped. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress.
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