“I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter. " Spurlock grew limp in his chair. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. He still watched her and questioned her. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Sometimes these dreams are simple and tender; sometimes they are magnificent. "I release you from your promise. Ennison,” she said. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea.
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