“Some day you will be my wife, and it would not be well for either of us to remember that in these unhappy days you and I were separated. But his eyes were on the Frenchman, and as Valade moved up the other road a little way, the lad shifted alertly, and swiftly closed the distance to the intersection. Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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