Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged a word with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations inspired by a broadbowled Dutch pipe. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. She gave up as he finished, spending himself in her mouth. The simile started a laugh in his throat. “I’m not that beautiful.
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