Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. She found her foster father and Mike still awake, playing high stakes UNO at the dimly lit kitchen table. And I’m afraid.
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