He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. She knew that the next time he caught her she would not be able to free herself. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. A fever of shame ran through her being. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. " "The very point I aim at," said Darrell as he passed through the outlet.
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