Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. "I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. ’ The girl shook her head violently, setting the feathers on her hat bobbing. " CHAPTER XIX.
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