The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. Actually, he had come all this distance simply to fulfil a certain clause in his contract with Fate, to be in Canton on this particular day.
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