Epithalamy might do. I can’t love you. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. The doctor smoked his pipe thoughtfully. "The poor young man!" she said. " "I liked that, too," she replied; "but it wasn't that I had in mind. When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. It was perfectly legitimate.
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