Gold-handled, too. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “All’s well that ends well,” he said; “and the less one says about things the better. . Few men could have done as much. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. ’ She looked up again and smiled sweetly. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me.
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