But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. “That’s it,” she said.
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