“Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. “What else was I to do?” For some seconds she stood watching him and both were thinking very quickly. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ‘She wants me to marry her.
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