But, feeling secure of vengeance, he determined to abide his time. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. And how much I owe you, too, dearest Winifred, for your kindness and attention. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it.
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