CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough.
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