She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. \"I guess so. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. ’ She waved towards a handy table to one side which was piled high with so many volumes, it looked in imminent danger of crashing to the floor.
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