Then she stood up and looked around the room. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. Would you like to borrow some of my clothes? I think we're about the same size. She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr.
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