Ennison slightly——” There was a dead silence in the little room. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. “Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. "Why do you laugh?" he asked. “Hello, Gwen!” said Ann Veronica, trying to put every one at their ease.
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