Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Wood could not avoid making a slight shuffling sound. A phase of mental activity that men called courage: to summon at will this energy which barred the ingress of the long cold fingers of fear, which cleared the throat of stuffiness and kept the glance level and ever forward. “I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. They did not spend most days together. He sat down. But I don’t suppose you can understand. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. His face fell. "Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry.
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