Wild allowed you to have your fine clothes again, or you might have been taken in a still more disgraceful garb. ‘I doubt very much whether they are yours at all. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. As matters now stand, I'm only a thief, not a blackguard. Damn! I’ve splashed. We married, and for a time we were happy. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. Aware of his father's inflexibility of purpose, he set his wits to work to defeat the design. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. .
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