There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. “You let him touch you!” John whispered back.
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