A neighbor stopped by as the day wore on, causing her to duck and cower as he rang the doorbell over and over. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. She felt that she became more familiar with the floor during the time that he stayed than with any particular person. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. “I am convinced you haven’t thought this out,” he went on. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “Call me Annabel.
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