A deadlock. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. "Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid.
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