So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. It does not matter to him either way. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "And I want to thank you, too," supplemented Ruth. Sheila found out. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else.
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