That is what stands between us, if you would know—that. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. You wouldn't rob Mr. Give me your staff. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose.
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