’ ‘I don’t even know your granddaughter, ma’am. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Wood!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise.
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