She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. What his head conceived his hand executed. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail.
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