Sheppard, faintly. Let me see now. In his way he was critical. When she reflected that Mr. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. “Why?” he asked, suavely. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. Wood heard the cry. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands.
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