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This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She fidgeted and looked away. The affair passed at one leap from a spree to a nightmare of violence and disgust. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. I'll have to put some pep into the game— American pep. “A move of any sort would certainly be fatal. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. ’ She struggled.
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