"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. While he was thus occupied, Thames, prompted by an unaccountable feeling of curiosity, took up the penknife which the other had just used, and examined the haft. ‘I do not know if even I can do anything now. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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