Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. You MUST not, you SHALL not go. You’re NOT to go. At the head of the cart was placed the coffin. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder.
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