"You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. ‘Left to yourself, my girl, you may not have any affairs. The door popped open with a sigh. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. Because of the Dance.
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