In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. ” “I like the mystical way,” she said. I didn’t know. ‘How fascinating. I hope we may never find her again. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed.
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