“Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. 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 who is its mother?" asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper.
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