Sheppard let fall her basket. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. “But your sister?” he asked. Two women entered and sat down at the adjoining table. " "Mighty fine!" ejaculated Mrs. '—'They can't,' says I. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. Life is morality—life is adventure. Ruth loved him. I care not.
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