Tell Bess to slip out, and I'll put on her cloak and hood. She would never, never go back. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her.
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