His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. " "My death will lie at your door," remarked Jackson to the carpenter. 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. Every word you utter puzzles me. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction.
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