The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. But if I were you, I shouldn't warn Spurlock.
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