CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. “Come on in. “Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. " "For whom, Sir?" inquired Charcam.
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