But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success. ‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back.
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