. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. A common rage flushed their faces. Drink for him had a queer phase. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow.
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