He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. Lucy trudged upstairs behind 258 him and he put his hand on her shoulder and said, “I’m sorry about this evening. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Before you have lived—” He became darkly prophetic.
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