Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. " "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. “I regret that you should ever have proposed it,” he went on. "It is time you should know whom you have to deal with.
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