" In the living room Spurlock's glance was constantly drawn toward Ruth; but in fear that she might sense something wrong, he walked over to the piano and struck a few chords. The only circumstance which served to awaken a darker feeling in his breast was, that his implacable foe Jonathan Wild had survived the wound inflicted by Blueskin, and was slowly recovering. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. “Are these ordinary sapphires?” she said. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. ‘But I’m hanged if I know why you find it so amusing. Wild. ‘I will do so. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine.
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