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The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service.
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