Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. "This must be prevented," he added to himself. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. ” “Out with it, then,” he cried, almost roughly. I knew it. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful.
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