‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The only circumstance which served to awaken a darker feeling in his breast was, that his implacable foe Jonathan Wild had survived the wound inflicted by Blueskin, and was slowly recovering. It really isn’t so easy to go as it seems.
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