Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. Two women entered and sat down at the adjoining table. That dress is thirty years old, if a day. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. Give him his medicine every half hour.
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