“Yes. Dorling said deferentially. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. She pointed hither and yon, smiled and shook her head. " "Oh! let me die," groaned the widow. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. ’ A laugh escaped her. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living.
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