But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. He's on the ragged edge. Can I give him any message for you?” “Thank you,” Anna answered. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air.
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