Spurling had retired for the night. I mean—I mean to do what I can. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. Some days, his eyes were green. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. A bad man, in fact.
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