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“Home, of course,” she answered. Spurlock bent his head to his knees. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. He told her something about music, the great world outside. "The Dawn Pearl," he said. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre.
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