"Auntie?" he cried. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. She immediately took the pillows from under the head of the man who had two names, released the collar and tie, and arranged the arms alongside the body. To her consternation, the sound drew her great-aunt’s attention and she threw out a hand.
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