Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. She crept into the living room and turned off the set, adjusting Cathy’s blanket which had fallen to the carpeted floor. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. Buck up. END OF THE FIRST EPOCH. She spoke slowly.
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