And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. I asked him—to take me away. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. Wood, I forget nothing. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. It is in the lower cupboard. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered.
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