Anna was more difficult. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. . John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. She thought study would be better. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite.
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