Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. She spoke slowly. He stood still, almost breathless. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. ’ ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused.
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