To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. " "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. She thought me— filthy. If we don’t live it will think we are afraid of it. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh.
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