She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. She saw his face change, how he regretted. Sheppard, that I fear any further anxiety might prove fatal to him. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate.
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