A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. I don’t see any good in life if it hasn’t got you in it. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. He had remarkably skilful fingers and a love of detailed processes, and he had become one of the most dexterous amateur makers of rock sections in the world. An old woman took her in.
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