"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. . Mr. Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears. “It is not an easy matter,” he said, “for me to offer you an altogether adequate explanation. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. Then the lady smiled and her radiance, even in the darkness, warmed Gerald unexpectedly. ‘I did not send you a card because in the normal way of things you rarely attend such affairs.
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