"Why, this is your writing Dolly, and addressed to Mr. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted. "I thought it best that you should imagine him. The guineas are not for serving your mistress. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. It was impulsive and natural. Mr. He must win this man's confidence, even at the risk of being called mad.
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