CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. Tomorrow you will feel like a freed woman. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. But men of the Spurlock type, who walk straight, who are unobtrusive and intensely pale, they break swiftly and inexplicably. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. ’ A laugh escaped her. .
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