Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself —and I think for you. Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. By and by he gathered enough courage to lean toward her. That is the dreadful truth. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. The next few hours will tell. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more. Cool and sunny, it seemed that God himself smiled upon that day, the sunbeams streaming through the magnificent arches dustily as the priest murmured in soporific Latin. "I didn't mean to give offence," replied Sheppard, sulkily. ” They remained looking at each other for three or four seconds. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. It was so hopeless to put it to them. ” He recovered himself.
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