These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. It was from Brendon. Rummage, my boy, do. His hug became an embrace. Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her.
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