CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. We don’t consider each other; we needn’t. She throws a sort of spell over us all. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. As a matter of fact I have been waiting for you. “Well,” she said. He seated himself before it. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him.
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