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It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. "Coward!" cried Kneebone. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting.
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