She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and recollected himself, turning on the charm again. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. The noise was raucous. .
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