And the woollen-draper departed. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. \" He panted, wiping sweat off of his brow with a towel. Austin was dismissing a host of inquirers who had been attracted thither by the news,—for it had already been extensively noised abroad. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. ’ She moved quickly to the nearest bookcase, and listened intently to the sound of Jack’s voice.
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