Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Plote was sleeping or deaf. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. He was amused. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. I’m like a creature just wakened up. . There were three exit doors. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee.
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