"I should never have acted as I did," rejoined Sheppard, bitterly; "if Mrs. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. I—well, I borrowed Anna’s name. Glad to get back, I’m sure,” he said briskly. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. There's my thumb upon it.
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