Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. No one ate with as much passionate gusto as a teenager could. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. On his return to the room, Jonathan purposely left the door of the Well Hole ajar. All she had found was the love of this dog. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind.
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