” Chapter XXXII SIX MONTHS AFTER Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. ” “It is,” he replied, “the one humiliation of my life. So long as he lived, Spurlock knew that in fancy he would be reconstructing that scene between himself and Ruth's father. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire.
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