She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. “Mind my smoking?” said Roddy. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. “Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. All at once he saw a way out of the threatening doldrums.
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