Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. Sheppard, in a voice of agony. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. The carte de jour was before Monsieur.
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