“You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. ‘Taken the girl with him.
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