A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Gina, the eleven year old, just couldn’t take it and she ran away. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. By-the-bye, do you recognize that?” Anna looked and gasped. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. Rhea commanded her. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. ” Ann Veronica was silent for a while.
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