She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. I always thought Mrs.
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