Then she goes to a dramatic agent. ” He saw her into the train at Waterloo, and stood, a tall, grave figure, with hat upraised, as the carriage moved forward slowly and hid him. He propped himself up on one arm, kissing her passionately. Spurling had retired for the night. Yet there was nothing for her to do. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster.
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