She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. They were sure to catch up with her. Even the children jeer. Spurlock looked up. He slapped his knee. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. But you will, you will. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow.
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