"All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference. He got up. Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind. "Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. You were probably robbed in Hong-Kong. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. She studied the face and tried to visualize the body, clothed in the dress which had created the spinsters' astonishment. He moaned in excitement as his lips wrapped around the peak of her right breast. But in a little while you will awake; and if there is a spark of manhood in you, you will be horrified at this day's work.
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