She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. After all, this could never be the black sheep. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. Hollo rumbled in his throat.
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