Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. . And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. ’ As a matter of fact, I am not.
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