” He closed the door of 109 in her face. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. “Punctual. She could not say a word, much less move. He’ll survive. You will find proofs of the bloody deed in his room. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness.
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