"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. Why don’t I just go and get the key from Pottiswick?’ Alderley flicked a glance back at him over his shoulder. He was snoring stupidly. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey. He'll be brought out at this door, and may probably make some resistance. "Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head.
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