Spurlock bent his head to the rail. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. You haven’t an idea what the sort of employment you could get there would be like, the sort of people you would be mixed up with. “Where am I?” he muttered.
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