"To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper. Anna held out her hand, and he paused. I don't believe his name is Taber. We'll have him yet. He resented being regarded as irregular. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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