” She looked at him doubtfully. She had agonized over it for weeks. "Did you write it?" "No. “Okay, Mom. CHAPTER XI. "It is never too late. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. . ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. He would provide the necessities of life and protect her. " CHAPTER XVIII.
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