As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. “Okay, I guess. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. He was angry. ‘Jacques?’ she called.
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