"Sir Cecil is no more. "Put it under my pillow," he said. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She recoiled. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world.
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