CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father.
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