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He drew a little breath of relief. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. I sat within a few feet of him. She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. ’ ‘I am whatever you like,’ he agreed pleasantly, ‘but nothing is going to stop me from searching for this dagger. " Her island! How well he knew it, thought Spurlock, for all he lacked the name and whereabouts! Suddenly a new thought arose and buffeted him. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. behind the Laundromat. . . ’ She bit her lip, frowning. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked.
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