Yes, this was a little better. ‘Quick, Gérard. " Spurlock, who was absorbing this talk thirstily, laughed. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. " But Spurlock put up his guard. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He got up. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas.
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