She remained by the door until the walls of the city swallowed the bobbing lantern. I swear it. Wished to see you. Her father had determined on a new line. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. He kissed her at the door. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Something seemed awry. “Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father says!” Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. Even our coarseness.
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