He had never read the poem, for Milton had not been one of his masters.

He stood devouring it.

He was doing his best to lay hold of it quickly, for there Letty stood, with her hand held out to take the book again, ready upon its restoration to go at once.

Silent and motionless, to all appearance unhasting, he read and reread.

Letty was restless, and growing quite impatient; but still Tom read, a smile slow-spreading from his eyes over his face; he was taking possession of the poem, he would have said.