I am safe while I am there, for I have had bolts fitted everywhere, and a pane of glass in the front door. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them.
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