A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like! A Frenchie is what you are, and there ain’t no granddaughter Charvill no more.
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