She pointed across the road. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. He made a quick movement towards her, but she did not flinch. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. At least the sun would not be as bright, which was a welcome reprieve from the mercilessly bright early summer days which had invigorated every man, woman, and child in the suburbs but were wearing Lucy down into acute fatigue, along with her hunger.
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