The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground.
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