Sheppard. ‘Do not beg my pardon. “But if you had?” she said. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. "Now, give me the woollen cloth to tie round my fetters," whispered Sheppard. “Let us sit down for a moment,” he had said. I gather you wish to go up in some fantastic get-up, wrapped about in your opera cloak, and that after the festivities you propose to stay with these friends of yours, and without any older people in your party, at an hotel. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. Why should you who are queens come down from your thrones? If you can afford it, WE can’t.
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