He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. But David Courtlaw has been here. It had been cut down before life was extinct, but a ball from one of the soldiers had pierced his heart. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness.
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