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But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. A radiant smile astonished him. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore.
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