They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Bon. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald.
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