Sheppard. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. " Out of the beaten track! thought Spurlock. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. " "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over. When will he be up?" "That depends. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister.
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