” She said. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame. This was in Texas. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. "Is it you?" "It is," replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms.
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