If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. " Spurlock's glance shot up, flaming again. She said that she dated him to be closer to me. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. Wood. You're the first widow I ever heard of who could withstand that lure. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him.
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