You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. It heralded you, promised you. He was—a millionaire. Wood, who had worked herself into a passion; "and, I'll warrant 'em, the boldest robber among 'em shall repent it, if he comes across me.
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