Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. This lady was singularly lucky in her matrimonial connections.
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