One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. I don’t know. “I am just back from Paris. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. 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.
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