“Why?” He inquired. ‘I left a message at home that he should do so as soon as he returned from Kent. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. . "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused.
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