Anna suddenly leaned forward and looked around her. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. Sheppard,—"pray let me go. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. It rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the beautiful prospect. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. ‘Go you through the passage and find the other door. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world. ToC Mr. Darrell.
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