Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Spurling? Why, if Captain Sheppard should get off, it 'ud be fifty guineas out of my way. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn.
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