And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. It’s these damned novels. “You know about my scandalous past?” “Very little. We were to ransom you, then we would fake your death, play as if the kidnappers had executed you. The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,—the presence of the mangled corpse,—the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required,—all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl's imagination. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. She gasped with pain, but she did not release her grip. "Well!" cried Mrs. It was a letter.
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