CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. ” Rhea whispered. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. Speak lower. There was none.
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