And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “Shari told me. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. ’ ‘Do you tell me you think you can outwit Gerald? I wish I may see it. Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the windows of the lofty houses. Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly light.
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