Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She was for ever scanning luggage and finding her way about the world, via these miniature pictures. “I think that you are very dense. You’re just a particular being with nothing else in the world to class with you. Lost from all protection, all her family dead—as are mine. He had thought it might have that effect. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. "It'll ease your mind. What duty does a girl owe to any one before her father? Obedience to him, that is surely the first law. But Enschede took them as they came, without question. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea.
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