CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Amiable and good-looking. If the boy had done anything wrong back there in the States, his would be the brand of conscience to pay him out in full. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. “Are you a special sort of clergyman,” she said, after a pause, and looking down her nose at him, “or do you go to the Universities?” “Oh!” he said, profoundly. He looked about for his hat, and put it on. I am totally like this on my own. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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