"Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. “LOOKS all right,” said Ann Veronica, regarding him with her head first on one side and then on the other, and trying to be agreeable. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Now what I want you to feel is this. She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. The face that looked down upon Ann Veronica was full of amiable intention. By this time, he had apparently accomplished all he desired; for moving the bottle out of Jack's reach, he appropriated it entirely to his own use, leaving the devoted lad to the care of the females. But the morning brought courage again, and those first intimations of horror vanished completely from her mind. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered.
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