‘Come, cry a truce. . And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. I have healed and I am still your wife!\" She looked at him desperately, his eyes illuminated by firelight. Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject. My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit. "I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears; "indeed, indeed, I cannot. ” There was a moment’s silence. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. This was what he missed. He said nothing, even though it was not raining.
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