“It’s my fault. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Mr. Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here.
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