And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. "You base ingrate," she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. She is more dear to me than anything else. Presently he felt motion. She wondered why he was so distinctive, so unlike other men, and it never occurred to her for some time that this might be because she was falling in love with him.
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