They were enormously pleased with one another; they found each other beyond measure better than they had expected, if only because of the want of substance in mere expectation. Very quietly, he added, “Oh Lucia, I’m sorry. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. She had been so young then. Wood uttered something like an imprecation.
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