" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. She had braved all obstacles to pursue her dream. “Go on!” she commanded. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. Both girls looked pale and listless. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. like, well, um, you’re kind of looking just a little bit homely lately.
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