“It is a hateful story. . He whispered in her ear. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. . A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile. "How have you managed to communicate with him?" Abraham, who had listened attentively to the foregoing conversation,—not a word of which escaped him,—now drew in his breath, and brought his ear closer to the boards. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Ennison spoke at last. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure.
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