She was dropped off at 2:30 at Whitefield Park, a huge extravagantly lit field in the new part of town. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. I've sent for the priest. "Safe!" shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. "I could almost find in my heart to quarrel with Jack Sheppard for occasioning you so much pain," observed little Winifred Wood, as, having completed her ministration to the best of her ability, she helped Thames on with his coat. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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