"Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. And as she was yet waiting for her tea to come she saw this man again. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. “Yes. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground.
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