He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "Did you ever hear me whine?" "No," admitted McClintock "You've no objection to my dropping in again later, after your guests go?" "No. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. I tell you that because it puts us on a footing. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. "Is it a bargain?" "Take half of my estate—take all—my life, if you will—I am weary of it!" cried Trenchard passionately.
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