CHAPTER XII. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. "How?" cried her brother, starting. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. The weed was all right. " "I could make a fine sketch of him now," whispered Hogarth to Gay. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. We shall have him on his return.
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