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Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. This girl was strong and vital: how would she take it when she learned that she had cast her lot with a fugitive from justice? For McClintock was certain that Spurlock was a hunted man.
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