CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Thing's upset you a bit. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. ’ ‘But I have told you not,’ she protested. I did all for the best, I'm sure. “Don’t let them know I’m here.
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