“Well?” he asked her tersely. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination.
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