Sheppard staggered forward. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Melusine stepped back a pace, her gaze fixed on the vision before her. —Strype's Stow.
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