Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. The other lay unconscious in a heap. These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand.
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