It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. ” Hill closed his eyes. What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. She’s taken my sword. No matter how much you tell me, you will always keep something back.
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