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“Thank you. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. He ate of the bread with great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of the water, poured the rest on the floor.
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