“I am sick of it. The ragged edge. There used to be an after deckhouse and a shallow well for the wheel; but I changed that. Again silence. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged. "He has fallen by the hand of Blueskin, who brought me these packets. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind.
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