She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. She shook them off of one foot. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. O'Higgins followed him into the dining room. She did not bother with the backpack despite its due tomorrow status. You say I know nothing.
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