It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. " "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging.
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