Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. This at once thrilled her and worried her. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson.
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