She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Then she saw the bodies piled in the corner. She was very pale, but she reminded him more at that minute than at any time of “Alcide” as he had first known her. "Ruth?" "Hoddy!" she cried. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. Oh, peste, he will ruin all. Get all ready for his reception. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob.
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