”
Chapter XXXII
SIX MONTHS AFTER
Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came
Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her
cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. I step on my neighbour's feet, return and
apologize because my acquired conscience orders me to do so; whereas you
might pass on without caring if your neighbour hopped about on one foot. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that
in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. "So, wanton, I have found you!"
"Wanton! Why, you infernal liar!" cried Spurlock, striking at the arm. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly
to a fine end. .
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