I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. “Reuben, come here. That is my way, my dear. Even when you've a knave to deal with, let your actions be plain, and above-board. She could not bear the shame of it. She was radiant. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "But I'm a blackguard, too, Ruth. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin.
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