Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. “What’s going on with you?” John asked inquisitively, looking down at her abdomen. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch.
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