The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. Whilst she was wondering how to frame her request for an advance, Mr. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. But I don’t suppose you can understand. For a time Spurlock did not move.
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