In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. ***** From the comatose state, Spurlock passed into that of the babbling fever; but that guarding instinct which is called subconsciousness held a stout leash on his secret. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again.
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