CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. " "Right," answered Ireton. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. You know all this stuff is insured. Who are they?" Mr. Undraw the curtain, love," she added to Thames, "that I may look at you. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. My engagement at the ‘Garrick’ terminates Saturday week, and then I am free.
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