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Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct. She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. His frowning gaze came back to her. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. “She must go her own way. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding.
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