’ ‘Damn you, I should have beaten you,’ Gerald swore, holding fast to his corner of the little square of linen. A silence ensued. At that a new element poured into her excitement, an element of wild disgust and terror. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper.
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