" The doctor ran his fingers through his hair, despairingly. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. They had cried a little, both. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. In these waters the shell has about given out. She’s taken my sword. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason.
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