On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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