He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Then she saw him. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. Leaving the panel wide, Melusine dashed to the library door and flung it open, racing into the hall.
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