He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. A dresser, a washstand, and a clothes press. “I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. “This is not every day. Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned. And lunged once more. “You are late,” she murmured. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. The two great hotels on their right were still ablaze with lights.
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