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With the last glimmer of decency he had sent the daughter to his sister. “Well?” “You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. . At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely.
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