“My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. "First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying effort. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. I’ve—dreads. There is no hidden beast in you, Hoddy.
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