She looked 57 forward to when Sebastian visited. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. . There was—a service. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. "No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood.
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