Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. “My hand! This isn’t the place. There was no one else in the doorway. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. "That's your hunting ground," said the doctor. Spurlock has gone.
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