Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Wood again made his appearance in a more composed frame of mind, and, at his daughter's earnest solicitation, was induced to partake of some refreshment. “Go on,” he said. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. ‘Though he didn’t mean it. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. Most of my people are upstairs dressing for dinner.
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