“My charm of manner, I suppose. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. The winters were bitter here, they could have just as easily been frozen off. “Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?” He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. By the intense look of him, she guessed that she had just encountered for the first time the boy genius Martin Chen.
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