America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. She nodded. “You did not wish to see him particularly this evening, then?” Anna hesitated. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. He had got here at speed by that means. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large. He had something across his knees. She saw it, and checked without thinking.
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