At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Spurlock stepped into the room. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. But we cannot discuss this here. “How are you feeling?” She asked.
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