” “Who cooked it all?” He asked. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London.
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