"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. ‘Was she planning to make away with all this stuff?’ ‘What’s this?’ Hilary pounced on a black item slung on the floor by the dresser. Throughout the afternoon, while the doctor was giving her the first lesson out of his profound knowledge of life, her interest would break away continually, despite her honest efforts to pin it down to the facts so patiently elucidated for her. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. So go up-stairs and get your things together while I look out for a hansom. At least until we graduate.
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