And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. Give me the books. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. It might be supposed that these articles, when thrust together into the bag, would have jingled; but these skilful practitioners managed matters so well that no noise was made. " "That's impossible," replied Jack.
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