"By George!" he exclaimed. In his way he was critical. Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place. Disperse in every direction. Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Only a book detective could dope this out.
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