1. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. His manner was deferential, even eager. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page.
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