She trembled; but she did not know why. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. She wedged the towel between her legs. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. Ann Veronica considered her answer. He did not come out of his chloroform coma and sailed weakly to his death. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites.
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