Sebastian sat smirking in amusement. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ’ ‘Comment? How will it serve you to kill me?’ ‘I do not need to kill you. The sing-song girls in Hong-Kong are far handsomer. .
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