Had to. I do not wish to return to Paris. I have plenty in common with Mike. That’s the wonder of it. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it.
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