You know the sort of thing. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover.
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