But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. Spurlock grew cold. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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