"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. ‘You have every right to be angry with me. I know less about this affair perhaps than you suppose. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. A sea voyage under sail will be the making of him. I can’t forget about your sister.
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