Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to tell. To her satisfaction, the captain reddened a trifle. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. \"Yes, he's hot, drives a great car, parents are loaded, and, of course, as you say, good-looking.
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