The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. Stanley took the letter and stood with it in his hand thoughtfully for a time. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. It was the grand nursery of vice.
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