" "Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech. With his chisel so fine, tra la! "There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,—"that'll do. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Mike chortled.
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