She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. 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. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. The significance of the kiss was still obscure to her, though she had frequently encountered the word and act in the Old and New Testaments and latterly in novels.
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