She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. You were accused of having been seen with the latter. But the crowning glory of Jonathan, that which raised him above all his predecessors in iniquity, and clothed this name with undying notoriety—was to come.
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