CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. 83 She stared at his crazily erect penis, mentally comparing it to Gianfrancesco’s. She had told Emile. His fingers closed upon her hand. Then she went up-stairs again, dressed herself carefully for town, put on her most businesslike-looking hat, and with a wave of emotion she found it hard to control, walked down to catch the 3. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. Morningside Park had been passive and defective; all this rushed about and was active, but it was still defective. At least, he would always be able to take care of Ruth. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. A glance sufficed to show the young man how matters stood. 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 cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. “Your mother was a Gypsy.
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