The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. CHAPTER XVI. You don’t understand. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. They sat in the front row.
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