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He was not a sailor. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. ’ ‘It is money you mean, no?’ Melusine asked with scorn. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “You underestimate your own sickness, and the ill humors that struck you may strike again. “No, I’m fine. .
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