Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. What was his problem, she thought to herself. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. The commissionaire smiled.
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