I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley. She looked at him mournfully. Melusine, I’ve remembered something that may help you. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry.
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