The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. I really am enjoying it. The room was intimate and wonderful to her with its shadows now cast over the girlish menagerie of stuffed animals. Sheppard's dress—extremely neat and clean, but simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most unpretending material,—offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour was so humble, and her looks so modest, that—if she had been ill-looking—she might, possibly, have escaped the shafts of malice preparing to be levelled against her. “I am staying at the Savoy. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. I was standing near Jack at that awful moment, and beheld the look Wild fixed on him. It cuts. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. His light brown hair was almost crew cut short. The particulars of her engagement were very clear in her memory. .
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