"Hear me out," said Jonathan. "Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head. 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 held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. This way, my dear—and— you’ll excuse my mentioning it, but a quiet blouse and a little chiffon, you know, will be quite sufficient. As if God would not continue to mock him so long as his brain held a human thought! God had given him a pearl without price, and he had misunderstood until this day. He remained talking with her however.
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