"My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. He walked with bent head. “That’s what we narcs have to do. Wood required little pressing. She pulled, he rose to his feet. He could lose himself for hours at a time. Ever since he came here, three months ago, he has been the life and soul of the place; and now the death warrant has arrived, instead of being cast down, as most men would be, and as all others are, he's gayer than ever. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. Spurlock grew cold.
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