And now she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name) knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it. But, as soon as he perceived who it was, he roused himself, and glared fiercely at the intruder from under his bent brows. You know the sort of thing. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears. 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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