He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. ‘I’ve never found a woman who did not drive me into a frenzy of boredom. "I've been to all the flash cases in town, and can hear nothing of him or his wives. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. His number was unlisted and unpublished. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. More than half the city perished. ‘Very well, never mind.
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