CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. ’ ‘Alas. . In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. All three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. I am suspected of having shot the man. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter.
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