"Is it you?" "It is," replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords. Stop it!” Anna stepped back bewildered, but the man held out his arms to her. Frequently she would doze in her chair; but the slightest movement on the bed aroused her. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. ‘Typical.
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