“Where am I?” he muttered. Taking advantage of his embarrassed position, Jonathan and his assistant rushed upon him, and disarmed him. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. " "Fine! I'll be wanting a guide. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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