Sheppard," said Wood, glancing round the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. '—'It's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive.
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