Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Ann Veronica blushed. “We played at love-making in Paris. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. ” Ennison obeyed Anna’s gesture, and was silent. It was a simple wish. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster.
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