Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows. “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. His age was not far from fifty. ‘I am done, Gérard. 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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