Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She slid the dress off, naked underneath.
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