"Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!" Winifred made no answer. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. " "How so?" inquired Winifred.
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