spurrier

Spurrier hung up the phone and sat in a nerveless trepidation which was new and foreign to his nature.

John Spurrier, whose iron nerve had once been caf talk in the Orient, sat down on a quilted bed and tearless sobs racked him.

What caused Spurrier to pause was the composition of the picture—and the mental comparison which it evoked.

Then John Spurrier rose, and supported himself by hands pressed upon the table top.

Spurrier hastened on, turning into a side street where he could put the glare at his back and find a more mercifully dark way.