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I'm a slave to my word. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. . ’ ‘That I do not doubt,’ Gerald muttered drily, but added in a tone of intense satisfaction, ‘Then this husband is still in France? Excellent. A brief calm succeeded. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. To divide the agony into two spheres so that one would mitigate the other.
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