Wood trembled. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. . ’ Then Hilary became serious again. “Home, of course,” she answered. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. "I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade.
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