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Well, I am Nigel Ennison’s sister!” “Oh!” Anna said. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. He did everything. “Cheveney!” she repeated. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Her thick body was heavy and massive.

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