"I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. She opened her eyes. . . He uttered a short laugh. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. Stanley. He filled his pipe slowly. I can’t even make myself care. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes.
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