“So you’re the one my son has been talking about. If only to say goodbye. The last piece was Scheherazade. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. " "I hope such a thing never will happen again, my dear," observed Wood, mildly, "but, when it does, it will be time to consider what course we ought to pursue. They had not to tarry long. . That is so awful. I want to be a human being; I want to learn about things and know about things, and not to be protected as something too precious for life, cooped up in one narrow little corner. Her face expressed nothing. ” “It seems so—so unworthy”—she picked among her phrases “of the noble love you give—” She stopped, through the difficulty she found in expressing herself.
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