" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. I know all about it. The light would betray us. We are in love. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. ’ He endured the inevitable scold with patience, saluted Mrs Chalkney’s faded cheek, and went off to endure the necessary delay with what patience he could muster. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard.
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