All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. He meets Anna, and claims her as his wife. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. 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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