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She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. I can. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. I have said good-bye to it all.
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