Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “You have even her name. Here she seems to have developed into a brilliant woman with more character and steadfastness than I should ever have given her credit for. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. “Quite right,” she said. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand.
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