‘That,’ he said stonily, ‘is yet another point over which we fell out. By this action, Lucy already knew what the answer was. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. ‘How so?’ he asked, and she noted that he allowed his pistol to dangle a little from his fingers. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. You were dying and your baby along with you. And the less “anything” happened the better. She was wan and white. The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination.
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