The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. It isn’t the same thing. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Kneebone assures me he didn't receive them, I can't do otherwise than believe you. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. “Number 13, please, cabman.
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