But when she saw the car, her body filled with dread, for it gave her a bad feeling. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. The wall of the sky, the wall of the horizon, the wall behind which each human being hid—the wall behind which she herself was hiding! If only her mother had lived, her darling mother! Presently the unhappy puzzlement left her face; and an inward glow began to lighten it. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. Nevertheless Sydney, clumsily, but earnestly, had something to say about it.
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