The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. “One has to live and learn,” she remarked, with a passable imitation of her father’s manner. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. There it is. Stow it in the saddle, for I will take it with me. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door.
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