He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was painted. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR. Just because she was sorry for that young fool! "Uh-huh," he repeated, rising and bowing as he passed Ruth's table. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. He made a note of the idea and stored it away. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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