Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. “You are going to treat me as though I wasn’t. .
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