His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. " "And by whom were they both destroyed?" demanded his sister, raising herself by a painful effort, and regarding him with a searching glance. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. Spurling had retired for the night. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress.
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