Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. Never. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “I wish he had,” she said. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park.
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