Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. She obeyed, extending her arm. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path. ‘I do not believe you. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes.
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