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The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. "O Massa Ireton! Massa Wild!" ejaculated Caliban, "Shack Sheppart gone!" "Gone? you black devil!—Gone?" cried Ireton. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. "It is the voice of inspiration," said Thames; "and I receive it as a solemn command. There was only one prisoner in the ward. But what a monster was this Emile. And yet, dang it! I've seen 'em just as innocent looking that were prime vipers. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. She addressed him in a tone of puzzlement. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. He was painfully in earnest, too.
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