His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. It was for ever. . ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. . I’m glad 237 you came over. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. Why should you wish to forget it? Unless it is that you did not enjoy it. I’ve made up my mind.
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