Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. “I’m covered. “Not at all. ‘And I’d like to know what the devil—’ ‘Out of town?’ repeated Melusine, stupefied. “I knew that you waited at the farmhouse. “It’s fine, Michelle. But for him——” Something in her sister’s tone startled Anna. There is worse to come.
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