"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking documents. "Perhaps you don't know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you. It was from Brendon. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew.
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