And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. This was enough for the poor widow. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. I came to see you on my own account. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty.
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