She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. Them young prigs is all alike. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; "they are coming!—they are coming!—fly!—to the roof! to the roof. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. Very romantic and all that.
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