" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. She fought him with tooth and nail. Your own safety—the child's safety—depends upon your candour. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. " "Allow me to offer you a glass of usquebaugh, my dear," said Kneebone, turning from him, and regarding Edgeworth Bess with a stare so impertinent, that even that not over-delicate young lady summoned up a blush. "Put it under my pillow," he said. ” They eyed her incredulously.
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