I don’t believe in the faults. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. You can trust me, Anna. ‘Now be sensible, Melusine, and let me help you. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. How came you, Sir," he continued, addressing Sheppard, "to venture upon that frame. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. Take my word for it, your troubles are over.
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