His voice now had lost its ironies. You seem to want this chap out of Canton. “It’s very late. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour.
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