This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. What was the matter with Spurlock that was to keep him in bed three or four weeks? He would dig that out of the hotel manager. Taking off his stockings, he then drew up the basils as far as he was able, and tied the fragments of the broken chain to his legs, to prevent them from clanking, and impeding his future exertions. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of the wind. “I’m fine,” she said softly.
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