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"But unhappily our Stanwood is so impractical. Probably he would have declined the commission. Atmospheric envelopes slowly en route to the dead letter office of dream pastels demand his whole attention. Painting is crass; he mildly cameos. Tonal nuances shades of imperceptible difference in the shadowy debatable land between things colored exactly alike claim his earnest interpretation.
Leaning to his telegraph instrument, he wired to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six miles down-line, his formal announcement. "O. S. G. I. No. 3 by at 10.46." "O. K. D. S.," came the response. Banneker returned to the sunlight.
"Is there trouble on the line?" she asked in a voice of peculiar clarity. "Bad trouble, Miss Camilla," answered Banneker. He pushed forward a chair, but she shook her head. "A loosened rock smashed into Number Three in the Cut. Eight dead, and a lot more in bad shape. They've got doctors and nurses from Stanwood. But the track's out below.
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