But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. " "Mine is Howard Spurlock. She was definitely following him. Her eyes where glassy and shining.
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