“Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. Their conversation hung. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. Charvill’s fury was burning out. “Why do you need to go for a walk, Michelle?” Diane asked darkly. " The walls appeared to rock; bulging shadows reached out; the candle flames became mocking eyes; and the blood drummed thunderously in Spurlock's ears. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night.
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