He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. \"So did I. gutenberg. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar.
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