Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. “I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. What is he—English or American?" "American.
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