Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. “I see the difficulty. ” “Do you think so? I find my interest in that sort of thing decline and decline. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. —'It's all up with us,' says he; 'they've taken away our charter.
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