This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. " "Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. No window. Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none the better for anticipating its miseries to-day.
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