Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. " "My confessor!" ejaculated the knight, in the extremity of surprise; "has he betrayed his sacred trust?" "He has," replied the other, grinning; "and this will be a caution to you in future, how you confide a secret of consequence to a priest. So far, however, was this submission from producing the desired effect, that it seemed only to lend additional fuel to her displeasure. But she felt his lax figure become rigid.
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