“You’re a student, perhaps?” said the tall woman. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. With the usual precautions, Austin then departed. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned.
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