‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. " On a shelf was placed a row of paint-jars; the contents of which had been daubed in rainbow streaks upon the adjacent closet and window sill. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Under the somewhat trying incandescent light her cheeks pleaded guilty to a recent use of the powder puff. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty.
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