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The third item she took with a trembling hand by its waistbelt. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. What is it?" "Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him with the craving of laughter.
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