The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. "Her ladyship—" faltered the attendant. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. She saw how overworked he was. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled.
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