The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. Sheppard's dress—extremely neat and clean, but simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most unpretending material,—offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour was so humble, and her looks so modest, that—if she had been ill-looking—she might, possibly, have escaped the shafts of malice preparing to be levelled against her. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. I think I asked if I could eat lunch with her and Trisha Deere one day and she said there was no room at the table. He put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. The man was my husband.
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