"Certainly," replied Jonathan, with the most perfect sangfroid, "I'll undertake to free you from the boy. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. And then I'll pay off old scores. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. ‘Gerald, what have you been about? Dorothée tells me that you were flirting outrageously with Madame Valade on Monday night.
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