CHAPTER XXV
Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his
knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames
addressed him. Fairbanks, AK, 99712. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a
hansom. "The poor things!"
The manager laughed. So, here he was, on the last lap of
middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war
against Death. It has been said, that the pier of each
arch, or lock of Old London Bridge, was defended from the force of the tide by a
huge projecting spur called a starling. No matter. “You’re a biologist, aren’t
you?”
He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace
magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and
was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. I want to put myself into your hands.
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