"The feeling is dead within my breast. Lucy sighed. Yes, yes, there is no doubt about it. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. It was only when Study Hall was over that Lucy turned her head. So completely! The oddest fitness! What is it made of? Texture of skin and texture of mind? Complexion and voice. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. I saw the blood come as he rolled over.
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