She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. ” She smiled at the thought. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word.
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