CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. Understand me! I forbid it.
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