Perhaps it was loneliness. Her voice recalled him. “Not a bit of it. . Promise me. You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career. \"Shhh! He rolled onto his back again, raising himself in alarm. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. Like the Castle, which it resembled in all respects except that it was destitute even of a barrack-bedstead, the Red Room was reserved for state-prisoners, and had not been occupied since the year 1716, when the jail, as has before been mentioned, was crowded by the Preston rebels. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess.
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