"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. What is it?" "Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him with the craving of laughter. “Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. " "I agree to that.
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