Not far from the entrance, on the left, was a sort of screen, or partition-wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, formed of thick oaken planks riveted together by iron bolts, and studded with broad-headed nails. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly.
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