"Spare me!" he groaned, looking upwards. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. I don’t think that the rest of the people here like us very well, do they, Arthur, so we’re obliged to be friends. ” She said under her breath. 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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