"Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. No man knew whence she had come nor why. “Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. He was disquieted.
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