Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. Womanhood is sacred to me. "She is here," cried Jack, darting forward. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. Sheppard, struggling to escape, and holding the infant at arm's length; "have mercy on this helpless innocent!" And the child, alarmed by the strife, added its feeble cries to its mother's shrieks. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Ann Veronica was apologetic to the bottom of her soul. Anna sighed as she reflected that her sister had simply revelled in her indiscretions.
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