And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said.
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