Instead, her husband was probably wise. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. " "Humph!" exclaimed Wild. " "Mad as you are, you're the more sensible of the two, I must say," rejoined Jonathan. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. His literary instincts began to stir. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night.
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