He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. And I have no more the pistol. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Besides—there is Sir John. She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly.
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