"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. ’ ‘That is what you thought of me. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. "But to the point," continued Wild, unconscious of the peril in which the remark had placed him,—"to the point.
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