When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. Living’s just material. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. ‘Least of all, one who takes advantage of another’s misfortune.
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