He became ugly and monstrous, dunning her, threatening her, assailing her. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. At first Spurlock tasted coconut in his eggs, in what meat he ate; it permeated everything, taste and smell. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Sepulchre's church, and hurrying down Snow Hill, darted into the first turning on the left.
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