What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that. ” She sat motionless, with her hand tightening over the edge of the table, and he, too, said no more. One night she apparently fell asleep.
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