She finished the olive and looked up. His eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy; he let out a sigh. An electric light flashed out from the wall. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her.
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