“I believe,” he said slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. No, don’t let me call myself that.
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