It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. “Hello, Gwen!” said Ann Veronica, trying to put every one at their ease. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. He had not proceeded far when he was alarmed by the tramp of a horse, which seemed to be rapidly approaching, and he had scarcely time to leap the hedge and conceal himself behind a tree, when a tall man, enveloped in an ample cloak, with his hat pulled over his brows, rode by at full speed. But you must come this way now. ‘I have told you, a whip it is nothing. I won’t tolerate any foreign tongue in this house, least of all that confounded French. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Suddenly he stopped short.
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