She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. Compared to most of America, you’re rich. Sheppard. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep.
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