Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. They had not so far been of much personal interest to Gerald, but tonight was different. “You are mistaken, David. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door.
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