Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. "But it won't do. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. She rang again with the same result. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. “It has all been a mistake, hasn’t it?” “No more talking,” the doctor interposed. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. . CHAPTER XVIII.
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