Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. ’ Melusine edged a little away from the portrait. “You are late,” she murmured. I know how bad it feels. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. “They say there are spots on the sun.
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