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" There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Then he looked across at Mrs Sindlesham. The chain, which had been partially cut through, snapped near the staple. ‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’ ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly.
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