She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips. They were sure to catch up with her.
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