He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. The Dawn Pearl! To be with her constantly, with no diversions to serve as barricades! Damn McClintock for putting this thought in his head—that Ruth loved him! He flung himself upon the beach, face downward, his outflung hands digging into the sand: which was oddly like his problem—he could not grip it. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk.
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