Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. “I am afraid—I really think that one of us ought to go with you,” he said. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. ” The dinner came to an end at last, and the whiskered waiter presented his bill and evacuated the apartment and closed the door behind him with an almost ostentatious discretion. “It makes one feel quite awkward to mention such a thing, but after all I think that it is best for both parties. . ’ The girl glanced up the road and turned back, annoyance in her face. He did not love Ruth.
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