He laughed lightly. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. Part 4 Interpretation came pouring down upon her almost blindingly; she understood now the room, the waiter, the whole situation. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees.
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