"Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. ‘I just don’t understand you, Gerald. " And, dexterously applying the implement, he forced open the lock. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. Her teachers and mistresses had done their best to stamp her mind with an ineradicable persuasion that it was tremendously important, and on no account to be thought about. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity.
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