I WAS talking to him before I saw his name on the card beside the row of microscopes. "My demeanour ought to convince you that I came with no hostile intention. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. We married, and for a time we were happy. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear.
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