CHAPTER I. His face was white. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. \"Carry your books for you?\" He asked. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. My Mom and Dad were always 184 at work. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand.
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