Sheppard, shuddering violently. “The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered. But Sheppard answered for him. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done.
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