F. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened.
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