Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. 192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips.
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