"I am sorry. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. Then she went in and up-stairs, hesitated on the landing, and finally, a little breathless and with an air of great dignity, opened the door and walked into Ann Veronica’s room. I came to see you on my own account.
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