“I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. "We're forgetting," he said. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another.
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