The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. It was a dead calm. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. He lowered himself on to her.
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