CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked.
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