As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. She almost sprang to her feet. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. . No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection.
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