A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. "Not that I know of," replied the carpenter, who had in some degree recovered his confidence. “When did you start?” She said between puffs. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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