Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. 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. Nothing can alter my determination. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Mrs. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core.
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