Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He was—a millionaire. But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end. . ’ He reddened a little, and shuffled his feet.
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