’ Gerald suppressed a grin. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. It was now evident that he had not been normal that first day. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “I dare not,” she answered. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast.
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