"Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. Sheppard, relieved by their departure, and giving way to a passionate flood of tears; "were it not for my child, I should wish to be in the place of that unfortunate lady. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Roof open —like a Noah’s Ark. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem.
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