"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. But threats and entreaties—even promises were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive, after exhausting his powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the point. Too much, perhaps.
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