In the book it's mostly names and speeches, and you only pick up here and there what the Island was like." "But what makes you sure it's _your_ Island ?" "You wait till we get to Stratford and ask him," said the boy, nodding, bright and confident.
"Arsk'oo?
Shakespeare?
Sakes alive, child! Don't yer know 'e's been dead these 'undreds o' years ?" "Has he ?" His face fell, but after a moment grew cheerful again.
"But that needn't matter.

There must be heaps of people left to tell us about it." Tilda closed the book.

She had learnt a little, but had been disappointed in more.

She felt desperately sorry for the child with this craze in his head about an Island.

She had a suspicion that the memories he related were all mixed up with fictions from the play.
As she put it to herself, "'E don't mean to kid, but 'e can't 'elp 'isself." But there was one question she had omitted and must yet ask.
"You said, jus' now, you used to play by the sea, somewheres beneath that line o' white houses you was tellin' of.