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And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. "How long will he be laid up?" "Three or four weeks, if he doesn't peg out during the night. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. “What are we going to do?” said Capes, with his eyes on the broad distances beyond the ribbon of the river. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. Wood.
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