” Lucy said. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. "Well, Sir?" gasped Sir Rowland. So I had to buy out his interest, and it pinched me dreadfully to do it. He’s just. My will never faltered.
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