And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. “You are in a private room of St. She shuddered. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her.
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