The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ’ ‘Damnation!’ ‘What the devil ails you?’ demanded his friend, striding forward. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. "What is he gone there for?" "With a message to the turnkey to look after his prisoner," replied Wild, with a cunning smile. . .
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