Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Sheppard. “I wonder—I wonder if we shall ever get like that. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom.
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