Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. She saw his purpose and his doubt hesitated also, and then went to him, took his coat lapels, and kissed him on the cheek. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. I must go to work again. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy.
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