As soon as they had got out, the vehicle was drawn up at the back of a tree near the cage. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “What have you been doing since our last talk? Still cutting up rabbits and probing into things? I’ve often thought of that talk of ours—often. McClintock's was a plantation of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about half a million nuts.
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