He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. Martha had been more to her than that. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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