‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. But I trusted to that ring of yours.
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