And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. "They shan't have the opportunity," replied Kneebone. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Let us be friends—as near and close as friends can be. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously.
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