5. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. He’s the handle of life for you. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. In the middle there was a gate. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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