“The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. Sheppard. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. Under happier circumstances nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have offered you a home with your sister. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. “I think she would,” she decided. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers.
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