She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. You are right. His eyes never left her face. 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. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words.
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