" He did not reply. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. “I will be off,” she declared. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry.
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