And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. \"Really. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. His spirits revived, and encouraging himself with the idea that the present impediment, though the greatest, was the last, he set himself seriously to consider how it might best be overcome. Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. At least the sun would not be as bright, which was a welcome reprieve from the mercilessly bright early summer days which had invigorated every man, woman, and child in the suburbs but were wearing Lucy down into acute fatigue, along with her hunger. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites.
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