’ She looked up again and smiled sweetly. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out.
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