Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. In one of the big gates was a little door, and she rapped at this. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. But these fears, like those he had recently experienced, speedily vanished, and he prepared to return to the roof, congratulating himself that owing to the opportune falling of the bricks, he had in all probability escaped serious injury. I came to the Beck’s house. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's.
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