But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend her. "What do you want?" he asked, in a gruff voice. As you know my seed is infertile with all women, they are no more than cattle, but it was not so with my Rhea. She kept her face downcast. She felt he would tell people the way, control traffic, and refuse admission to public buildings with invincible correctness and the very finest explicit feelings possible. Try something. 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. I’m sorry. Then suddenly the curtain would fall.
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