Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. Her English was halting. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. You say you need a man.
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