Wood, severely, "and go to bed. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. She answered him with another kiss, long and deep. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. She went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine.
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