She is, in her way, a dear. But tell her this, too. His hair was thick and brown and his skin was fair. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. ‘Was she planning to make away with all this stuff?’ ‘What’s this?’ Hilary pounced on a black item slung on the floor by the dresser. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “I don’t think she will,” she said.
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