And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. Wary they might be. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. " "I'm no reader of riddles," said Jonathan.
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