"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. I always told you some accident would happen. You have watched all the uncouth creations of my brain come sprawling out upon the canvas, and besides, we have been companions. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. In a sense I don’t care. “Concern me!” she repeated fiercely.
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