Spurling. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. "I am Owen Wood, at your service. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. “Impossible to say,” he answered. I'm about to ring for supper. ’ Grudgingly, the sergeant shifted aside and allowed her access to the stairs, grumbling to her retreating back, ‘If I’d me way, missie, I’d send you back to France where you ought never to have come away from, if you arst me.
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