Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. “I noticed him call her attention to us as we passed down the room,” he answered. ‘It is not your affair.
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