"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. " "I am," replied Jack, without hesitation; for he felt assured from the man's manner that he might confide in him. ‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. “Thought so. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning.
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