Spurlock was fond of dogs; he was fond of this offspring of many mesalliances; but he never made any attempt to win Rollo, to share him. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. He was not there. Beautiful sculptures of sugar and almond paste decorated the long tables, delicate replicas of flowers and miniature animals, even a small Palazzo sculpted from cakes graced the table. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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