Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. Find that boy. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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