Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. ‘Odd sort of a nun. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. You see, my riddle is solved. Gwen made an inquiry, and, directed by Mrs.
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