He lost control of the machine, was upset and nearly killed. It was a mass of knick-knacks. “The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. He glanced up at the coachman. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door.
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