I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. The elements were wrathful as their passions. ’ He regarded her thoughtfully.
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