\"Carry your books for you?\" He asked. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. "You can generally understand that language. I'm not particular what or where. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. “Rubbish!” he answered.
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