Lucy looked about confusedly. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment.
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