But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. Get out your pad and pencil. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall.
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