Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Profoundly. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. It is perfectly intrusive of me, and I quite see that you must be sick to death of running into such an interfering busybody all the time. "I am twenty," said the girl. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness.
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