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" "I will be there," answered Trenchard, gloomily. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. ’ She bestowed a dazzling smile on Roding, who had reddened to the gills at these words. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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