She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. ‘Never would he have gone to England. There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the grim resolution of what he had set out to do: that comradeship was all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky and sail. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice.
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