Sheppard," cried the carpenter's wife bitterly; "and, I repeat, Bedlam's too good for her. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. Anyone would be intrigued. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering.
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