Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. This individual apparently met with some impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood stood. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said.
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