The Times slipped from his fingers. Spurlock halted in his tracks. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. And also I have this Prudence. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station.
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