Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. All at once it came to him what a fool he was to worry over this phase which was wholly suppositional. .
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