It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. Most of the tables were for those who smoked only and drank wine, but there were a few spread with tablecloths and laid for dinner. Without a single ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns, out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room.
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