. . ’ ‘And do not say you made a mull. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth.
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