The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. Sheppard. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. He caught the smirk. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism.
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