"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. “It seems to me it comes to earning one’s living in the long run,” said Ann Veronica, coloring faintly. Sheppard, vainly trying to discover a gleam of compassion in the thief-taker's inexorable countenance,—"Mercy! mercy!" "Pshaw!" rejoined Jonathan. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. Gerald began to ease forward, deciding just how he would accost her. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner.
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