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He rose, steadied himself, then walked out of the dining room. ‘Ah. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. "Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. Sheila bellowed, a great wail of a sound from deep in her belly, flinging her tremendous weight towards him. 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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