"Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. She heard their feet and muffled voices. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. “Now you look happy. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. ” Lucy replied. " "But not for me," growled Terence, in an under tone. From all angles he was at a disadvantage—in weight, skill, endurance. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry.
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