How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. “How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven’s sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. We are off for a second honeymoon. .
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