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The events that had initially followed in the wake of her triumph over Emile Gosse had quite confused and dazed her. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bedside, watching over him with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a blood-stained cloth bound across his brow. My sister was scarcely likely to make a mistake. Spurlock halted in his tracks. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. I didn't understand then, but I do now.
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