Mr. Stanley, “very strongly. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. .
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