The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. He bent over to Anna at once. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. So, let's think no more about it. ‘Parbleu, you are deaf perhaps? It is seen that you are very old, certainly. ‘You could have fetched me home. ” She said.
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