And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. “Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. "Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman.
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