And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. ’ ‘Listen. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. Spurling had retired for the night. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. She got up early, and walked about the garden in the dewy June sunshine and revived her childhood. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. "Humph!" exclaimed Jonathan, doubtfully. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last.
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