He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. “Because you used to be my friend, Lucy, and now I don’t get to see you anymore unless I can get into your house. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ” She gasped. To fall upon those tales for the first time, when the mind was fresh and the heart was young! He became aware of an odd phase to this conversation. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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