Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Sepulchre's church, where, in compliance with an old custom, it halted. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. “Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you,” she said. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. Take it, I tell you.
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