Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. “Come right in,” he hissed under his breath, with the true conspirator’s note, closed the door very softly and pointed, “Through there!” By the meagre light of a gas lamp she perceived a cobbled yard with four large furniture vans standing with horses and lamps alight. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this.
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