Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. But you could have just as easily lost your womb in the Pestilence, and your life. Practically it was most of the chief interests in life that she proposed to settle in this pedestrian meditation. He certainly bore inspection. He turned in at the club.
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