” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. Wood fared still worse. 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. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. But he has never been near her—never.
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