Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. “I think they do. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. It’s artificially chance. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. To-morrow at twelve I'll be with you, Mr. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW.
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