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After that consolations fled. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. “Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time. The villagers were thronging to church. I am bored to distraction. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. Kneebone smiled assent. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort.
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