" "Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together.
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