But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. " "I know it," replied Sheppard, "and therefore I spare your life. “Too greasy for me. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded.
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