“What has he done? “What shall I do. I shall know what to say to him when he comes. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. Sheppard's dress—extremely neat and clean, but simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most unpretending material,—offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour was so humble, and her looks so modest, that—if she had been ill-looking—she might, possibly, have escaped the shafts of malice preparing to be levelled against her.
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