‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. The spectacle seemed to afford as much amusement to Jonathan as to the actors engaged in it. Wild in his own domain. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. You're always complaining that you can't keep anybody more than three months.
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