Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. Miching Mallecho IX. 1. “I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. I can assure you, I wouldn’t be single again for worlds. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. .
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