" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. A door slammed. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement.
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