Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. "I can never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. So completely! The oddest fitness! What is it made of? Texture of skin and texture of mind? Complexion and voice.
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