"So much the worse," replied Jonathan, rising and taking a turn, as if uncertain what to do. She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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