And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. Just this? Parbleu, did he think this was enough? She did not wish to marry him—at least, not just because he was an Englishman. She longed to enjoy human food as he did.
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