And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. “Not to-night,” she said. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. Sheppard had been interred. “It’s best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. As a dog eats grass. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. ” She made her glasses glint.
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