E. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. He too looked at the girl, slackened his pace and looked at her again through his eye-glasses, looked over his shoulder after he had passed, and finally came to a dead stop. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. ‘Parbleu, you waste time.
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