“I might go home, I don’t know. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks.
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