Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped. “What have you been doing since our last talk? Still cutting up rabbits and probing into things? I’ve often thought of that talk of ours—often. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The popcorn dwindled to a half a bucket, his heart settled into its normal routine. That is easy.
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