Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped.
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