“He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. It has something to do with the fact that my Mom had them when she was only seventeen. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, "I have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died last night—I won't tell you what agony you have caused me—I won't reproach you. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry.
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