Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. " "Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech. He would know her address to-morrow. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side.
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