"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. It was grated and crested with spikes, like that he had just burst open, and thinking it a needless waste of time to force it, he broke off one of the spikes, which he carried with him for further purposes, and then climbed over it. " He stared at the agitated curtain; and slowly his chin sank until it touched his chest.
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