Gianfrancesco stumbled belatedly onto the beach, his feet padding wet sand. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. "Holloa—what's that?" cried Austin, starting up.
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