"Not a syllable," replied Wild. Cool and sunny, it seemed that God himself smiled upon that day, the sunbeams streaming through the magnificent arches dustily as the priest murmured in soporific Latin. Love, obliterated, annihilated; out of his heart and out of his Bible. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. ‘I can manage now.
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