CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. " "Couldn't … couldn't I go with you this afternoon?" "Too hot. "Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. Do you accept it?" "Dear Thames!" "Forgive this ill-timed avowal of my love. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. When mistress took and died—’ Joan broke off and sighed, moving away to the window.
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