And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return. “That’s HIM,” said Ann Veronica, in sound, idiomatic English. No great lover of state or state costume at any time, he was generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in dishabille, and in this condition he now presented himself to his subjects. She crooked her finger.
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