F. Melusine approached with caution and sat warily at one end, looking up at him expectantly. Never be downhearted. It was she! The Dawn Pearl! He vaulted the veranda rail, careless now whether or not he was heard, and ran down to the beach. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators.
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