“I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. Then perhaps I shall send for him if he has not forgotten. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. At that, the girl jumped up. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry.
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