Turning, she flew for the nearest door. At the sight of her he became rigid and a singularly bright shade of pink. Just then—I was nervous. I don’t love you. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. She dived at once behind the cover of the lamproom and affected serious trouble with her shoe-lace until he was out of the station, and then she followed slowly and with extreme discretion until the bifurcation of the Avenue from the field way insured her escape.
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