So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain.
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