" "Why?" McClintock put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. " "I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers," observed Wood. But in a moment she believed she understood. Melusine approached with caution and sat warily at one end, looking up at him expectantly. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. 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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