Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “A little touchy this evening, aren’t we, Missy?” Michelle chided her friend. He's going to ask you to Prom. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet.
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