Sheila was often a terror to her husband Mark, who seemed afraid of her. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. . . It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. Even this man had accepted her for “Alcide” without a moment’s question. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes.
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