A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr. Sheppard, whose distress at the consumption of the provisions had been somewhat allayed by the anticipation of the intruder's departure after he had satisfied his appetite, was now terrified in the extreme by seeing a light approach, and hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘Lover’s tiff indeed. I wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India.
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