It was impossible. “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “Your home is very. . ’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself.
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