Sheppard. 70 <9> A MARRIAGE, PART II She dreamt of the inn they had stopped at after her suicide attempt, the flea-ridden hostel her husband had angrily toted her to after the incident at the country house. Sheppard is Constance Trenchard," replied Jonathan, maliciously. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. “It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. There used to be an after deckhouse and a shallow well for the wheel; but I changed that. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said.
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