Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. He looked at her reproachfully. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. Her skin prickled. . . Nevertheless it was overwhelming. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. Cathy threw Mike a look.
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