His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. The pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. “My hand! This isn’t the place. The Jew did not speak, but pointed to the audience-chamber. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. ’ Then she ran swiftly out of the library, calling out as her cavalier was almost at the front door.
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