Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. She held out both her hands. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. He says only that he must tie up all the loose ends. “I think—we all think that she is wonderful. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag.
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