The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. ‘There were the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme. She waited expectantly. An enormous Hand that rose up swiftly, blotting out the sky. 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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