She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. “Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. Tears began to stream from her cheeks.
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