"I am one. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The room they were in was a sort of closet, with the door locked outside; but this was only a moment's obstacle to Jack, who with a chisel forced back the bolt. His literary instincts began to stir. "Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November. Both these ladies possessed considerable personal attractions. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. I'll have a peep at him, if I die for it," she muttered, as she went out. She was the first to hear another car approaching from the street, an odd occurrence in an elementary school lot that had been abandoned for the weekend. "Not as I loved mine.
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