Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. I’m sorry. Still —there you are!” He paused. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. Chapter XX ANNA’S SURRENDER “This is indeed a gala night,” said Ennison, raising his glass, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles.
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