"I am not, by Heaven!" replied Sheppard, firmly. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. I shall quit it and go abroad. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. But Sheppard was not to be silenced. Vee’s all right. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not.
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