The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. “It’s okay. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. ’ ‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. F. And lunged once more.
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