Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. She herself had cut the slender tie that had bound them. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. "So that was it? And what the devil are you doing here, moping alone on the beach? Why aren't you with her in this hour of bitterness?" "What can I do?" "You can go to her and take her in your arms.
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