Jerking forward, she jabbed backwards. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. Nuns, I mean.
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