Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Spurling, who did not dare to exhibit her satisfaction otherwise than by privately pinching the arm of her expected husband. “Oh, we are also under the spell,” he declared, “but I think that we are here mainly because it is cheap. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. He had not noticed the girl particularly when she offered the sandwiches; but in this moment he found her beautiful.
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