Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. “My heart, my dove, I only want to heal you. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful.
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