" "Let me go," implored Mrs. Sheppard. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. We have to get them to let us in for the profits of their business, and in return we ask them to—dinner. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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