Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. In beginning of their marriage Sebastian had maintained a strict monogamy, never upsetting the matrimonial routine. ‘Not here. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes.
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