Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. "To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. . We were two people with a craving. She would have to move on to a more lawless country soon, Mexico, Columbia, then cross the sea where she could eventually return to the chaos of Eastern Europe and the Russias. A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. McClintock was amused. She swallowed hard.
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