Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. So soft. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. Good riddance. She pulled her chair with a mild creak and marched towards the stair. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it.
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