“I suppose he’s frightfully clever,” said Miss Klegg. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom. " "Oh, dear!" simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘Exactement. It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. Sheppard. .
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