"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. One particularly humiliating thing came out— humiliating for me. "The poor young man!" she said. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish.
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