She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way. When the bell rang, she lagged behind as was her habit. I had been about as foolish and selfish as a girl could be. Understand me. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. “I hope you will not compel me to say again that I do not know the man’s name, nor, to the best of my belief, have I ever seen him before in my life.
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