" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. "I'll tote the odiousness outside. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. 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. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. “The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded.
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