“I do not wish to make impertinent inquiries into your private life. Go away!” “Why kill this one, Lucia? She shall be missed. She had to have him, her body was going crazy for the want of sex. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. But, here they are.
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