’ Fury rippled again. Well, come back in half an hour. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own.
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