She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. He stopped abruptly before the apparently incurious Chinaman.
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