"How goes it?" he began, heartily. No, don’t let me call myself that. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration.
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