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I want to hammer myself against all this that pens women in. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. 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. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her. But I can't consent to the course you would pursue—at least, not till I've given it due consideration.
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