He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. "Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. 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.
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