For a time Spurlock did not move. The music throbbed into the warnings that preceded the king’s irruption. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. “Believe me, I know. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber.
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