She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. But, perhaps, you'll first accompany me to my dwelling for a moment, that we may arrange our accounts before we start.
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