"How?" cried her brother, starting. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. She thought she had hidden well from him. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. "What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child," rejoined Mrs. "Well, Mr.
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